A Passing Madness

It all really started when I moved from Miami to Seattle to be closer to my spiritual mentor. Even though he was dead for many years. It wasn't long before I hooked up with some like-minded would-be musicians; we started jamming, then we formed the band.

In the beginning, I named the group "Funk Hole". The week after that it was "Burn"; and after that, "Bad Punctuation"; and so on and so on; one iteration after another.

I kept changing the name because we were so bad. But no matter how many times it changed we never got any better. From the start, I made myself the leader and lead vocalist. No one objected and besides, it was my destiny. I was "the leader" and it was "my band"; "Nirvana" reborn. I would call my sound "Neo-Grunge"; He would have liked that. I was going to make things happen, just like He did. I was young and really not too bright and touched by a bit of serious madness.

I started reading everything about Him. I studied His life. I let my hair grow and paid to have it professionally dyed to match His hair. I studied His facial expressions; how He moved. I shopped the funky thrift stores buying all the cheap stuff I could find so that I might look like Him. I dated only girls with blonde hair and full red lips. I had my best friend buy me a shotgun; the exact same model He used, a Remington – 11 12 gauge, for His grand finale. I cleaned it relentlessly and practiced how it would be held when the time came for my finale. I even fired it once in my garage, just to see how it worked and succeeded in putting a rather large hole in the ceiling. The landlord was not very happy about that. But then no one seemed very happy. Not too hard to understand with the endless gray of the Seattle sky. Man, that sky seemed to drag everyone and everything down; not like sunny Miami. No wonder this place is the end of the world for so many desperate people!

In that state of madness, my overall plan seemed quite logical and simple. First, I had to have a great band. Next, I had to be great, really great. I had to write great songs; great music. And when that one great magical song was out I could then bring the whole thing crashing down, like He did. I would retreat from the world. I would do drugs; stop showering. I would re-create myself as madness. I would give the world a new madness to embrace and enshrine. And when the plate was full; when all of those who came to sit at the table of madness, and eat and drink of madness until they were sated; sitting in their comfy chairs thinking of dessert and madness; then I would kick those chairs out from underneath them dumping their asses onto the floor of madness and they would rejoice; they would love it. It all made sense. Besides this was the way it had to be. It was the way He did it. So perfect in His timing. So perfect in His logic. He was The King! But He's gone; I would be the new King; Long Live the King! Long Live Madness! And all I had to do was wait for that perfect song. For the adoring Neo-Grungers to bow at my feet; for the world to rejoice in my madness. The funny thing about Time; it keeps moving. I waited and waited for that song and in some small way I might still be waiting; except.......

Practice Fridays came and went; months passed and turned into years. The day I turned 40 my wife started asking me how long was I going to keep dyeing my hair blonde and could I please shave. The band is still around. We still practice some Friday evening but the guys that show up change from time to time. Some move away. Some are just gone. Most are dealing with jobs, family and kids. You know what I'm talking about. We never did connect with a producer. We do get together once in a while to play the local bar scene but that never leads anywhere; still, we get a few free drinks out of it. We did manage to get an agent once. One of the drummers had a cousin who claimed to be an agent. We would make some demo recordings; he would show them around, but nothing ever came of it. I still have the shotgun; it sits in the corner of the garage. I sometimes take it out and clean it and every once in a great while I will sit there and think about Him and practice holding the gun the way He had in that last moment of His life. The gun is never loaded and I don't even remember where I stashed the shells.

The madness has diminished over the years; I guess, at some point, we all grow up; "Nirvana" was replaced with better things. My wife, she's a brunette and three beautiful kids. My job sucks, but it pays the bills. I have stopped dyeing my hair and I no longer visit the thrift stores. And I shower twice a day. Occasionally I do take the old guitar out and turn the amp up loud and sit in my garage, my audience, a bottle of Jack. I can still play some of the old licks but not as smoothly. Arthritis seems to have found a home in both my hands. Truth be told I don't always remember the lyrics. Most Fridays I don't bother to sit in on band practice; my oldest son plays basketball on the school team; Friday night games; I like being there for him. I stopped renaming the band years ago. My own madness is at peace with itself and I think I'll sell the shotgun.

Once a month what's left of the band gathers at my place; wives, kids, dogs. We fire up the grill, drink beer and light up the occasional joint. Sometimes we'll get the old equipment out but we don't play much grunge. More like a Reggae Country kind of sound; I like that. Later we let the CD player take over. I enjoy holding my wife close; dancing slow. I like seeing my kids running around. I like the cool evening air and the promise of tomorrows to come. I am also glad that I never did find that song. I rarely think about the past and what might have been. Who would want to be a King anyway?